WHO THE FUCK IS JOEL HODGE?

Joel Hodge is the baddest ass rock critic in the High Fidels' email inbox, offering the harshest praise of local Bay Area bands. His reviews appear somewhere in cyberspace, though no one knows where (if we could find a link, we'd post it). Occasionally the "Joel Reviews" land in our spam folders, and we're obligated to read them. Hodge's reviews have been used for high-minded educational purposes in teaching kids how not to write ("paragraphs are your friend, children"), but we love them all the same (the reviews, not the children). His love-hate relationship with the Fidels is evident in his writing, and mirrors that of the vampire's secret lust for sunlight.

Most recently, he was promoted to player/manager in the High Fidels' organization when all the other Bay Area drummers were busy that night. He enjoys spending time with his family and buying drugs in foreign countries on the pretext of helping others.

Acid Rock back in San Francisco where it belongs.

July 11, 2008

Grant & Green

High Fidels accost tourist and people who were annoyed for the inconvenience

in North Beach.

If you wanna ride, ride the White Horse.

First off, a whole hearted "Thank you our Brother!" to Street Sheet retailer

Ricky for his concerted effort in promoting our utter rock domination of the

Grant and Green Saloon last night. Ricky, who is no stranger to making

people laugh and selling them shit, proved that guerilla marketing is more

effective than billboard advertising and buying all those fucking lists of

names from the dudes at 7-11 who were stealing credit card info from the

card readers in their gas pumps (the people on the list had NO idea what we

were talking about when we cold-called them about the show.). Props to

Ricky indeed.

Grant and Green Saloon's nestled close to the heart of North Beach in San

Fran, more like an atria than the heart of North Beach, if you will. Good

luck ya'll if you're looking for a place to park 'cause that ain't happening

on this seriously congested street x extreme incline intersection. Another

shout out to our man at the parking spot for minding the van and hunting me

down with my keys when he split at the end of the day, stay green.

So once loaded in, and having initiated "getting loaded" things were all

good. The Fidels, as a whole, were in good head space. Many cigarettes

were smoked on the sidewalk outside the club (50/50 tobacco to clove, and an

unaccounted 1% weed). Fidel keyboardist Frankis opted to peacock the Guido.

Guitarist T. Kracksmokus rocked the forest green thermal mock-n-t-shirt aka

standard High School Musical extra issue (see family Disney Land pics if you

want to check out the ensamb I'm guessing). The Tank, who frets nothing,

was a Mac and not a PC. Engaged Bassist Hidalgo Avery chose to rock black

and foolishly spouted the words "Blow Job" like a bank robber spending

freshly stolen cash, much to the chagrin of the married Fidels who know that

blow jobs only happen when you can put your own dick in your mouth after you

say "I do." (or, as Terry would surly point out, "Or if your dog really

likes you!"). Fortunately I was personally able to employ the fashion

design talents of brilliant, yet mute, Magnus who selected fast shoes, and

an island meets Target distressed forgotten superhero genera (having

weathered the Loni x Zeccola "camo shorts and tie dye" neg and conscious not

to repeat.).

Gravity Plan opened and drew quite well from the local foot traffic. I'd

still like a stab at micro-producing their material, because it lacks

something that could make it rock. ...um ...er ...oh yeah! Dynamic.

That's what it lacks. Maybe a mandolin, slide or acoustic guitar boys?

Huh? Don't know? Whatever. That is, buy the way, one bitchin' lug-heavy

orange sparkle Star Classic man, nice score!

Okay, get that over with. And now I'm seemingly motivated to help get their

shit off stage so Slow Motion Red can get on (and get off.). SMR opened

right up and people on the street outside started streaming in. There is

something about a woman's voice and heavy electric guitars that seems to

attract other women(?) Fortunately, and for my personal entertainment, it

also attracts drunken women. And tonight, to the delight of Jeb and me,

this cosmic alignment (moon near 97%) and combo of alcohol resulted in a

perfectly executed girl-face-plant right in the front doorway of the club.

"I'm okay, I'mmm okhey, I'mz oh- kiz-ay." Quick like, I offer "you wanna go

outside and smoke some pot?" Which solicited a hearty "Hell Ya!" A

diabolical plan in full effect when, suddenly, who would appear but "Mandy"

the more sober, concerned girlfriend to save her-drunkenness from these Mac

and not-so-PC Jimmy-Buffet-buys-his-shoes-in-downtown-Richmond vermin. My

Mom had a dog named "Mandy" who ate banana peels and other dog's turds. She

too was short, fat and had black hair. Coincidence? I think not. .Maybe

that other chick's name was Mindy? Whatever.

The Slo Mo set warranted a High Fidel posse and a quick flyer-flick up the

blizock. "Hey foreigner! Look where the fuck you're walking for God's

sake! And, come check out the Acid Rock show that's gettin' ready to happen

down the street." "Here brother, take this, it's free." I stand by my

statement about the virtues of the flyer as temp-drink-coaster, even though

those little bitches said "Ewe! Take these off our table!" Go Green girls,

and quit releasing so much methane into the atmosphere. Number three, do

you usually wear your hair up? You could use to drop a few pounds, better

lay off those house nachos." Neg-neg-neg and they will come. And they did.

"This is our last song." was the cue for all Fidels so exit the joint and

light up one last cig. I chose to face the crowd and get my gear lined up

for the exchange. "Thank you! Good night!" Blah, blah, blah woman, get

off stage so we can get our shit set up and play. We're only and hour and

thirty minutes behind schedule. Out with their shit, and up on stage with

ours. All that talk about putting the drums up there first so there'd be

space went right out the window and the chaos race to see who'll tune first

began. Avery won. Frankis needs a mic, mic stand and a mic cord. Jeb

predicts a 60% likelihood that he'll break a string tonight (always a sign

of a stellar Fidels set btw). Kracksmokus regresses to Sound Guy and starts

barking orders and flagellating and mumbling in Greek (excuse me, Gr33k).

We're up.

What the fuck did we open with? Oh ya, New Robe, rocked that shit right off

the Coit Tower and then off Francis Ford Coppola's ass Apocalypse Now style

(I even felt a little Funky Cold Medina break in there somewhere.). Damn

loud ass crash cymbals! I can't hear shit! And I couldn't. Not then, or

during any other loud song. But the hits kept coming. New Robe, something

else, Gary, and then. I thought it was Kind In Cages, but actually it was

Jerk Like Me, and I never recovered. Stupid fucked up acoustics in that box

at the back of the room. Stupid San Francisco night club with a PA but no

monitor. Note to self: Next time drums and keys on the floor and

everything else in the grotto.

Gary.

Strung Along - Frank smoked hippy crack and the jam band we promised

everyone we weren't, showed up. I can't make a song end, but I wanted too.

Recovery is a process and sometimes can be hampered by relapse and other set

backs.

I recovered slowly, fore there were moments I was questioning my own

existence there on stage. I was behind and above myself, watching my body

go through the motions. I felt someone staring at me. It was the Hidalgo

"Stare of Death!" It was the Frankis stare of "What's wrong? Is something

wrong? There's something wrong. Do you smell something? This sucks!?

Does this suck? What? Am I supposed to be looking at something? Me?

What?!?" which is useless in time of need. If. only. I. could. hear.

Kracksmokus with the overly animated head gestures to me at full volume

don't offer much when I can't hear where we are in a song. Is this the end?

The bridge? The solo? The break? What?!? Why! Quit it God damn it!

AAAAAAHHHHHHHHHHHHHH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Phoenix up the ashes!

In every personal emotional storm there is a point of calm clarity. Maybe

it's a teddy bear, a pretty flower, or flies having sex on the edge of a

paper plate with mustard and half eaten hotdog on it at a picnic at a park

some where in the Oakland hills. Robert's Park maybe? For me that Island

of Refuge was the Tank. His reassuring looks of total confusion and

disorientation brought me back into the fold (.is that a Hyundai parked

outside? .If Frank is text-blogging this!?! I'm gonna punch him in the

head! *note to self* aim low.).

Tender Vittles.

Ah. the Fidels are now in control of the house as it should be. Here's a

little ditty about back in the day when all the cats put shit in their hair

like the Frankinator, with a little butchered two-part harmony thrown it to

keep your mirror ball spinin'. Fonzie for President! Dance or else. Next

time we'll play that shit slower and give you guys time to get your knuckles

past those slips and panty waist bands.

There is an ancient Gr33k story about a man in sandals who was masturbating,

in a market stall near Githio, as he felt for two olives in a wet sack.

Losing his balance at climax, he fell upon an enchanted lamp, and a Spartan

with a spear and shield emerged in a form similar to smoke. The Spartan

gave the man a small bottle and said "Let this be the inspiration for things

greater than Sparta!!!" And then he fell on his spear and disappeared. The

man coveted the bottle, but could not reveal its purpose before his demise.

On his death bed he placed the bottle in his great grandson's palm and

closed his fingers around the boy's fist tightly. Then the old man spoke

his last words, "When the time has come, you will see the answer.ack!" And

he was dead. The child kept he bottle and studied it often, but was

clueless as to its use. Decades pasted and then one moonless night, late in

his recording studio while entranced, the secret was revealed to him. Love

Potion #11.

You like that??? Ya! You like that. Say it. say "I like that." Good.

We rolled out Molly for all to see and peeps was jaw droppin' and then

singing along. Molly has it all, fucked up circus calliope trippiness,

compelling story line, punk breakout and Mary Poppins! Perfect.

Not weird enough for you? Well here's a little ditty about a Parking Lot

Attendant that is going to weed out the weak. This is the little albino

guppy that hides in the gravel while everyone else in the tank gets eaten.

The High Fidels don't care if you don't like it. We're working out some

deep emotional shit up here on stage for fuck's sake! You just go have a

beer or stare at your feet for a minute.

I don't remember a lot of what happened after that point. I know more music

was played, but the victory was already won. Sure you can kill everything

in sight, there's always going to be some scrawny little fucker who thinks

he's been given the power to defeat Goliath who is going to come running at

you screaming (usually it's "Psycho Killer!") and you just pop a cap is his

forehead and rock on. The rest of the night was for fun. The rest of the

night was for the crowd and for the Fidels.

We were happy to stand with our collective foot on the neck of the Grant and

Green Saloon. It was simply a matter of fighting off vermin with one hand

and swatting dog- pecker-gnats with the other. This block had been weakened

years before by the heavy notes of those who would grow to become High

Fidels. We shall move door to door with our ACID ROCK AND ROLL UNTIL WE'VE

PLAYED EVERY SHOPPE IN THIS CITY!

Acid Rock is back in San Francisco where it belongs. Long live High Fidels!

The Stork Club

February 2,2008

Lighting one up for the High Fidels

Curmudgeon rock critic gets his pickup artist on as "Mr. Sick" and starts the moshpit as the Fidels light up the stage in space robes

The Stork Club, February 2008—I love Oakland.  Having lived there for a few years and had the opportunity to wander the streets late-late at night, I have an appreciation and respect for the northern part of town.  And the Stork Club on Telegraph Ave is always a spot that gets a nod when passing by.

Tonight Mr. Nitro and I (Mr. Sick) have made an evening of getting to the Stork and seeing the High Fidels in person.  Not particularly heated at the onset, things would change as the night wore on.  I found myself in the very familiar pool room staring at the posted bills from days gone by.  I've had my moment on stage at the Stork and feel a connection to the earth below the foundation and covering the floor.  The thin layer of grit.

Mr. Nitro is kind enough to douse me with Seagram's Seven and Seven-Up, PBR and whatever else, and I am mindful to return the favor in like kind.  I establish myself in a corner near the blocked exit leading to the flooded patio area that generally servers as the smoky spot.  Without this recess, many resort to smoking in the pool room.  And not being one to be left out, Mr. Sick puts fire to hash laden grass and begins to burn the room down.  With trembling outstretched hand and a knowing look of "I shouldn't do this should I?" the Geiko Caveman reluctantly takes a turn with the stick.  Cough-smile-its-your-shot.

With an audible *click* we're outside the club on Telegraph Ave, and I'm having a conversation with a dude from Guam who can't believe I've been there.  His story about Guam puts me in my place.  Drama there is simpler.  The fashion of life is old and rooted in the tradition of respect, yet still clashing with the "now."  As the vapor trails off and the air gets weird, I find myself standing alone.  The Fidels are on stage.

I missed the intro… but know the song that is being used to justify the stage garb.  Shimmering digs indeed.  But the music is the same.  The energy is being channeled to their chakras, as the Fidels have taken a vow of silence between songs to counter the endless blather they flung out at their last show.  As I settle next to His Nitrocitiness and share a knowing glance, I am suddenly accosted by a tall athletic young urbanite with breasts, insisting that I must dance.  My mutterance of "hold on sister, I know these guys and I'm here to hear the music" does no good.  So, we mosh.  Elbow to tit, elbow to tit, back-shoulder-elbow-to-tit. Had enough?  Not yet?  Hip check ala Kracksmokus, forearm-to-back and one final elbow-to-tit.  Now let me set the fuck down.

But, she is a persistent sort, seemingly out of place with her Dirty Dancing friends, older husband, and whatnot.  Again, grabbing my wrist firmly and with authority she's tugging me back into the fray.  "God damn it woman! You're hurting me!" but she seems to know it's a lie.  "Come on!  Dance with me!"  Alright then…  I've got my mosh gyro on and you and I, little one, are going to make others here hate us.  I lock elbows with her and shift my weight to the left and fling her ass in circles like rag doll.  I fight the urge to just let go and set her aflight.  And then I do let go to bounce off the crowd, arm spread wide gathering the weak.  There are those who do not want to participate and they let me know so with punches and harder than necessary pushes, and so the psycho and I go back to these people together and I use her as a weapon (you wouldn't hit a girl would you?).  Turns out they would, and someone else's elbow in her breasticles creates a good mark for me to escape back to my perch.

The Fidels seemed to feed off the crowd energy as it came and went.  They were playing alright and looking quite Church Choir in their glittering dresses.  Still out of tune, still somewhat sloppy, typically Fidelic.

Thankfully I was having an experience.  As opposed to just sitting and watching another Fidels show.  The bitch kept coming back for more, but I wasn't having it.  Too annoying.  And odd (who the fuck were those people, some kind of hired street team there to force everyone into thinking they were having a good time?).  And when Mr. Nitro gave me the nod that he had had enough it was ESP.  

Telegraph looked familiar.  Elbow-to-armrest.  Foot-to-the-floor.

19 Broadway

Fairfax, California

March 8, 2008

Ear ache? My eye!

Pink eye and all, the Fidel's fiercest critic sits in for a night of rock that makes his ears explode

"Here's the deal.  Nobody told the Unofficial Rolling Stones that there was an opening act tonight."

19 Broadway, Fairfax, CA, March 8th, 2008—Conveniently located next to the local movie theater, 19 Broadway does not afford ample parking early on a Saturday night.  Having lucked into a place across the street, I sat and wondered about hauling all my fucking drum equipment across the street through the heavy hippy traffic of Fairfax.  Staring in the vanity mirror at my conjunctivitis infected right eye by the dome light in my "Family Van,"  I spied an open spot next to the club on the other side of the street.  A quick wipe of the tissue across my retina and a twist of the key, I made a decision to chance getting the "good spot" before some asshole took it and I got left cruising in circles looking for the next best thing.  I made it.  The God's were shining on me this evening.

And that was a good thing, because I was nursing a piercing ear ache in my right ear along with pink-eye in my right eye.  I was probably contagious and shouldn't have been glad handing "band mates" or the public, but fuck it, I was here to play the drums.  And by God I was going to play come hell or high water.

No hippy assault at the entry, as per the past.  Just inside the door at the bar I found Terry Kracksmokus and his lovely wife, Sara, slamming beers.  Terry barely said "hello" before launching into a narrative… "Here's the deal.  Nobody told the Unofficial Rolling Stones that there was an opening act tonight.  So they've got all of their shit set up on stage and are going to sound check.  Then they'll move their drums off the stage and you set up your stuff."

Whatever…  I started making trips to the van, dragging in my menagerie of drum stuff, found a spot to one side of the stage and started setting everything up.  I could tell that Mr. Rolling Stone wannabe Charlie Watts would rather have sucked an old man's dick than let me play his drums, and that was okay with me, it was a Ludwig reissue set anyway.

Eventually we got on stage and got our sound check in.  I couldn't hear shit back behind the kit.  Mostly because I was deaf in one ear.  I also had the "blind in one eye" in full effect, so that just heightened the experience all the more.

This is going to hurt you a lot more than it's going to hurt me.

We opened with "Gary" nice and mellow, as to not frighten the old people away.  Then, after Mr. Kracksmokus reminded me how the song started, we launched into the Ween cover "Gabriel."  Applause.  "Strung Along," "Kind in Cages," etc... but really for me a "Frank song,"  a "Jeb song," a "Terry song," etc…

From this point on the show was mostly a mystery because I couldn't see anything other than the back of keyboardist Frank Zeccola.  He was set up directly in front of me to protect me from onlookers.  Meanwhile, bassist Chris Avery was staring me down and I was trying to figure out why?  Had I done something wrong?  Was I missing a change?  WTF?  (Later he would reveal to me that "it was just what he does on stage," stare at the drummer.  A hold over from his jazz session days.).

Our 45 minutes cruised by with polite applause interspersed amongst the music.  I was in a vacuum between monitors and couldn't really hear any vocals, guitar, or keyboard.  Basically I guessed my way through the set.  But I did so with some confidence.  The High Fidels were unexpurgated.

"Tender Vittles" and then the last song of the night.  I asked for it to be "Weynshet," and so it was.  With one song we erased any light hearted good feeling we had established.  We wiped the semi-smiles from the faces of a generation, whose parents watched them grow up hating their music.  The die was cast.  It was a heavy 18 sided five thousand pound die that crushed everything in its path.  I didn't care.  Through my blurry eye and pounding head I saw visions of what could be and I smelled the Centrum Silver, Viagra and Chloe #5 begin to seep into the sweat of the waiting old as they anticipated the arrival of the Unofficial Rolling Stones.  The fake Mick Jagger, and wannabe Keith Richards.  A crowd unknowingly pwned.

Interesting how the old grapple to hold on to the past, their days of rebellion and change raging against the machine, and yet they lack the presence to notice something new right in front of them.  The very ones that created a generation driven by Pintos and Disco, looking across the sea for influence that they claim as their own.  Still with a side glance at the name of the opening act, still with an eye off the coast.

Show over.  Done.  Thank you to Chris McGregor for the load out help!  The comment of "I thought I was going to hate it much more than I did" made it all worth while.  Thank you Fidels for the opportunity to make your vibe rock.  See, I was right.

19 Broadway

Fairfax, California

January 17, 2008

 

“Oh Gabrielle…” did you steal that riff from Van Morrison’s “Wild Night”?  Maybe not, but it doesn’t matter as I only got to hear a bit of it from inside the van before I came into the club.  Of course, my experienced was heightened by the fact that I was somewhat accosted by a Hippy-wannabe at the entrance to the place, some long haired dude with hot breathe trying to force joyful good Karma out of people because he really feels empty inside ‘cause he has no weed and his parents loved the gardener and their pool boy more than him, “Have a stellar night bro!  No love?!?  Then fuck you man!” (fucking hippies…  Fairfax’s version of dog pecker gnats.).  Trailing the unwanted waft of patchouli behind me, I shuffled to the back of the joint to check out the scene. 

 

Huh… there were actually people paying attention to the Fidels (who were already on stage) including one elderly woman who lasted about three minutes before bolting.  I lurched to the back to check out the sound at the sound board and found it quite blown out, not that the sound guy could tell apparently.  Start Recording 

 

Having found the appropriate tumbler to clutch I settled in with a smile on my face.  Somewhat amused, somewhat surprised, but proud none-the-less, I was happy to see something actually happening in front of me.  People on the dance floor were dancing and digging the groove.  The Frankis, in early show form, like a cranked up gerbil in an invisible wheel doing the squint-smile, half-rock star, half “I’m gonna cum on your face, holy shit I just came on her face!”  half-One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest “If I get out of this straight jacket and the drugs wear off everyone in this place is fucked!” thing, all while trying to kick his shoes off so he could feel the floor.  Terry, to my delight, went to Old Navy and got new threads, and seeing that alone I could have left content.  Jeb was busy wrestling invisible elephants that were either trying to take invisible peanuts out of his pants pockets, or he was sportin’ wood and pretending he was John Holmes with a guitar.  Chris and Chris doing their best rhythm section thing, one Chris sporting a driving hat?  Fidels firing on all cylinders and rolling the crowd like the ocean rolls the tide.  …Or is it the moon that rolls the tide?  Whatever… 

 

There was early success and it was evident that the people paying attention were enjoying the show.  Certainly the energy being put out was being adsorbed and thrown around within the room.  The sound was all over the place and a lot of the vocals were getting lost in the guitars and keyboard.  Terry would step up to the mic and only dogs could hear him sing.  Either that or the lip-sync track wasn’t cued up right, I mean I saw his Adam’s Apple moving, but…  Same with his guitar solos.  And Jeb’s. 

 

You guys know this bitch, and I heard you tell me after the show that “it’s the sound guy, blah, blah, blah…”  Okay, I’ll give you that… occasionally.  And, I realize that you’re just out having fun playing music, etc.  However, the Fidels have a “sound” that is unique.  You have the blessing of being very talented musicians.  As a group you are lacking sonic dynamic and separation.  There is a volume just below “ear-splittingly-loud” …I think it’s called “Thunderous!” in the hair farmer circle?  You guys play that loud on Raychette, Ranchette or Raclette (isn’t that a cheese thing with hot irons…?)  or whatever the “Parking Lot Attendant” song is called, which is fine.  It’s appropriate (although Jeb’s vocals need that funky wave bender box thing in line between the mic and the PA).  Anyway, people come to hear music.  And even if they are only there to see a band play, and don’t give a fuck about musicianship, they tend to remember that “the guitar player was good.”  I believe that you guys are GOOD ENOUGH that you can turn down a lot more and allow your solos and interaction to “feature” more. 

 

Although it might make you throw up in your mouth a little bit to think about it, think about Twisted Sister, when Dee Snider would shut up for a minute and turn his back to the audience and the kid in the crowd with the Twisted Sister t-shirt with one hand in his pocket making sure he hadn’t dropped the keys from his mom’s Camaro and the other in the air throwin’ devil horns, who was about to boot from drinking too may Jolt Colas and eating too may Pop Rocks, would start throwing his almost shoulder length hair around… Jay Jay French would step to the front of the stage and lean back and balance his guitar on his dick and fucking rip shit like nobody’s business.  And you could hear it!   You could hear the guitar solo!  If Twisted Sister can do it, so can the High Fidels. 

 

I guess succinctly, you have to almost force people to listen sometimes.  You do so by turning down the volume and not fucking up too much when you play.  Show off your musicianship and your talent a little and people who know good music will seek you out.  And those people, who don’t know good music, will learn, because The High Fidels sound so much better than the bands bracketing them.

 

You played, what, seven or eight songs?  45 minute set?  45/7 = ~6 ½ minutes per song.  There were several jams, so that per-song length changes.  Are the Fidels a jam band?  Can’t be a jam band and have a set list 50 songs deep unless you get to play for hours at a time.  Unless you’re supporting a CD there is no need to play the same songs every show.  Sure there are crowd favorites, but people yelling shit out makes everyone else think you have depth.  Did I say “play to the crowd” and don’t bore them to death?  Stop playing the song that makes people leave to go do something else.  If the crowd wanes, play something else, immediately.  There’s no shame in switching things up.  And who’s making that call, Castro himself?

 

“Manic Depression” was too fast, but you know that.  I’d critique the other songs, but I don’t know what the band call each one and you’d be better served just listening to them yourselves rather than me rippin’ shit up.

 

Frank, Terry and Jeb, figure the out how-the-fuck to hear yourselves singing when you’re playing at volume.  Or, simply figure out how to sing in tune!  If you can’t hear yourself, fix it.  A crowd doing the out-of-tune-guitar cringe is one thing, a crowd doing the out-of-tune-lead-singer cringe is bad American Idol.  You don’t want to overhear “they played well, but none of them can sing worth a shit” …again.  I get the parody stuff you’re doing on the song about the soft dick, and it’s funny, no problem, keep it.  It’s the other out of tune vocal stuff I don’t get.

 

I got the Rock Soap Opera thing, but I don’t know if others did.  There were times when Frank’s expressions and apparent disgust with Jeb was uncomfortable.  I guess the uncomfortable part was because there was very little interaction between Frank and Jeb and more between Terry and Jeb.  And nothing between Hidalgo and Jeb, or Frank and Chris, or Terry and Hidalgo, or Chris and Terry and Jeb, or Frank and Chris and Terry, or Jeb and Terry and Hidalgo… etc.

 

The stage energy was AWESOME!  And the crowd dug it.  I dug it.  About half way through the show you lost it.  You failed to push through the diaphragm and into the uterus (hell, apparently Frank came on her face in the first few minutes of the show…).  By the time Psycho Killer came up, there was no chance of impregnation.  Although you had regained some momentum by then.

 

I personally think what killed you were the extra long jams.  Just a little too long.  Give ‘em time to piss, but, only enough time for ¾ of a piss.  You want them standing and/or squatting straining and trying to bust a vein to cut off the stream so they can hear the next song.  Never long enough to take a shit and have a smoke.

 

I bitch, but over all it was a good show and I wish more people could have seen it.  The on stage antics worked well and everyone fed on that.  Sonically it was good if you were standing on stage, in the room not so much.  The band that followed you made you look good, ‘cause I lost interest in them almost immediately.  Like Soul Broker!

 

I recorded the show and you guys need to listen to it.  The more I listen, the more I like it.  You should bootleg it at the Stork.

 

Sadly it was over.  No one kissed me “goodbye” and I didn’t get the hand job I was promised in the flyer (I did get the “phantom hand job” on the way home though!).  I guess I got more than I paid for.  I was indoctrinated into the Church of AWESOME!  And I have been forever changed.  Thank you Fidels for guiding me to my new religion.

 

AWESOME!

 

-Joel

 

 

When: October 24, 2007

Where: 19 Broadway, Fairfax, California

Who: the High Fidels (and guest)

PREVIEW:

Frank Zeccola never returns my phone calls.  Maybe it’s because he can’t tear himself away from ABC’s new comedy smash hit Caveman, who’s leading man he shares a striking resemblance.  Unfortunately, more often than not, this pop culture flash-in-the-pan lethargic “caveman” like attitude often directly translates into club-fisted random pounding on the keyboard in an attempt to make primitive music.  For all of their random grunting and stirring of dust the High Fidels just can’t get a fire lit, and therefore are on the same evolutionary track as the Dodo.  Almost certain to all be sporting the same t-shirts as their last show (t-shirt and flannel in Terry’s case), you can only hope that at least the music (and the set list) will be different, but don’t hold your breath.  When deciding whether or not to attend tonight’s gig, ask your self this; Is it better to run headlong into the foul, hungry mouth of the Tyrannosaur?  Or stand by, and flick-your-bic and hope that the patchouli oil drenched hippie’s armpit next to you doesn’t erupt in flame and engulf a quaint corner of Fairfax, Great White style?  

 

With the rumored addition of special guests making appearances at this evenings show (Mike Billings, the only true member of Oakland’s “Soul Broker”), that pain in your lower abdomen might be more than feeling stupid about shelling out your hard earned cash to see this “rawk” show.  It might really be something trying to exit your sphincter like a Cuban missile as Castro slowly rolls over on his death bed.  Guaranteed to be funnier than an episode of Survivor China!  …but wait, that tomorrow night… More likely to resemble a Subaru commercial viewed through goggles under the emptying of an enema.  Adult undergarments strongly suggested.  Air freshener free to the first 31 people through the door.  And remember folks, you can shit on a canvas and smear it around, hang it on a wall and, after the smell has gone, call it art.  People like us will always come take a look.  I’m just hopeful that the shit smell stays away from tonight’s musical purge.

 

-JH

 

REVIEW:

Like a great hand job from a sexy woman with Parkinson’s, tonight’s show by the High Fidels at 19 Broadway was ironic and a little herky-jerky, but generally pleasing none-the-less. 

 

Opening with light pop fluff and slowly cruising thought easy songs like “Gary” the band tried to settle down and hit a mutual stride.  Meanwhile, the mostly local crowd seemed to gravitate to the bar and patio to smoke and talk about the earlier Ween listening event which had superseded the Fidels taking the stage. 

 

I managed to fight my way to the back of the club where the noise was.  There I found guitarists Terry and Jeb crooning to a nearly empty dance floor.  With the vast majority of patrons swilling at the bar, I felt pity for the Fidels, similar to watching the little kid with leg braces who pisses himself playing alone in an empty corner of the playground at recess.  This was augmented by the presence of keyboardist Frank Zeccola’s parents beaming and proudly watching on from a nearby table as their son worked up a sweat playing piano (ya, that’s right, he sweats from playing piano…).

 

After procuring a much needed shot of Southern Comfort and beer from the now thinning bar, I settled in at the back of the room to see if I had indeed wasted quality television and sleep time with this pursuit.  I was joined at my table by fellow East Bay rocker Mike Billings of the Stoner Rock project “Soul Broker.”   Together we formed a crowd.

 

Jojo

 

As the first set progressed things began to come together.  There is a certain place that musicians go to (good musicians) where perfection gives way to art.  For those listening, the increasingly intricate intertwining guitar work of Terry and Jeb on stage was a creative treat.  They fit together like an eclipse, with either holding a riff while the other sonically takes aim until a target is hit.  When things lock, it is akin to the thrill of shaking the ¼ inch plug on your shitty shorted out mono headphones and making everything play in stereo again. 

 

One of these periods of total sonic eclipse happened during a cover of the Beatles “Get Back” and I cautiously shut my eyes (“cautiously” because I’ve heard that Mike is bi, and it makes me nervous to be that close to him in a dark room with my eyes shut…).   I tried to envision Paul McCartney’s house near Reddington Pass in Tucson, Arizona.  And, although I had smoked some California grass earlier in the evening, I was unable to reach Tucson and that house in the desert where the American flag hangs upside down.  Instead I found myself on a roof top at 3 Savile Row with frosty air on my cheeks, a Japanese wannabe artist to the right of me and Apple Studios below.  It was nice to hear a fresh, yet, respectful version of a song everyone knows.  And the crowd that had remained attentive enough applauded appropriately.

 

Whilst the guitar noodling continued up front, and I say “noodling” because watching Jeb play is somewhat like watching a man in a river reaching under a rock to feel around for a fish to grab (or like trying to find the hood latch on a foreign car, or like fingering a stranger in the dark… you get the idea).  Whilst the noodling continued, drummer Chris Oatman and  bass player Hidalgo (he’s the newest addition to the Fidels line up and I can never remember his name is Chris Avery, but he looks like he could be a “Hidalgo,” and so it is…) laid down a somewhat weak, if not rocking at times, foundation.  “Weak” in that the crowd couldn’t hear the bass. And complicated by the fact that the sound coming through the stage monitors was too low for the boys to play at full strength, and creating more of a studio jam atmosphere - where instead of playing out, they playing at ¾ strength while straining to hear one another in the mix. 

 

Meanwhile, the Frankis was busy tearing up the Rhodes and Micro Korg at the same time, flinging out all order of spacey trip-a-fied noise while bouncing around like three kangaroos on speed.  Frank gets “cute points” for blushing each time he sang the word “fuck” or “pussy” or “wet” because his folks were in the crowd watching.  This promptly ceased when the elder Zeccola’s hit the door. 

 

Fortunately the Fidels did not suffer from the gremlins of the past.  There was no thrown baguette (although it had to be mentioned).  There was no total break down of communication about set list changes that resulted in what could only be deemed as a bunch of “bullshit noise” on stage as everyone tried to agree about how to start the Talking Head’s “Psycho Killer.”  And there were moments of sheer brilliance.  At times I knew I was watching something special and the groove was in full effect.  Songs like Bob Dylan’s “Maggie’s Farm” (which I would like to thank the Fidels for playing upon request) captured the crowd by its roots.  Fairfax claims some of Marin County’s remaining true hippies, and I could hear the rusty hinges on screen doors in the neighborhood creaking open as the old timers stepped outside from their sleepy spots to hear the minstrel’s call and smell the honey on the air. 

 

The night crept on.  “Devil’s Blunder” got pounded into submission.  A song about “The most beautiful parking lot attendant I have ever known” happened with screaming fury.  The Fidels made their proclamation that they are “the shit!” while cruising through their rock anthem “the Hit.”  Then, a stunning and mesmerizing event happened.  In a test that only real rock-n-roll can administer, Jeb broke an ‘A’ string.  There was zero hesitation apparent as he decided to work the new sound into his continued solo, and when the strings on his guitar continued to give up one-by-one, I am proud to say that Jeb did the right thing and finished the song in true “rock star” fashion, liberating fret board and body from their wire restraint.  As the last finale crash came down, Jeb stood tall and awkward with his guitar looking like a ho fro out of control.  

 

Unfortunately, this is where the Fidels decided to take a break.  Just as the crowd was getting the odd energy being put out, the band pulled the plug in lieu of cigarettes, beer and self aggrandizing.  And the crowd left.  At one point during the first set there was a youngish spinner cavorting side stage, a rare phenomenon.  But rather than hang out the feeder and coax the timid little ones nearer, the fans were neglected and left to fend for themselves.

 

Coco Crisp

 

Reigniting a dying fire can be tricky, and although the pentette did manage to get up some energy for the second set, there was more smoke than out right fire.  Sure there were some very compelling instances that stand out (particularly the rendition of Light vs. Sound’s “On My Way Out” which wore it’s freshness like a new kitten), but the night had deteriorated a little.  The crowd was gone with the exception of “the crowd” (Mike and I) and the dude half tripping and getting his break dance on.  And the Fidels played on.  There was some strength in their music and they were visibly having a good time on stage, but where they had drug the crowd along with them earlier, they were now lost together in the void.  The void that could have been their practice space, or someone’s backyard, but not 19 Broadway.  With “Psycho Killer” still ringing in my ears, I bailed.

 

Props to Frank Zeccola for his multiple costume changes during the show and for his effervescent energy that never let up.  I can’t tell you what’s up with the rest of the band other than Terry wears what appears to be the same maroon t-shirt to every show (if you like to see it just check out his picture on their website as it appears that he practices in it as well!).  The Chris’s might as well have been going to work or the mall and were non-descript.  Jeb, in knowing he would be critiqued, decided to sport some cubicle wear straight from “White People R Us.”  The Fidels need management.  They need a multimedia show to back their act.  They need merchandise and CDs to sell.  They need balance in their act, as some songs wandered on long after everyone had lost interest, went and pissed, got a beer, pissed again, went for a smoke, came back and checked again, etc.  Just more missed opportunities to capture the crowd and hold it in their mystic grasp.  For those without, fulfillment can be had on a good night with these gentlemen.  I wish I’d recorded this 19 Broadway show; it was truly one for the archives.  At least I got to see it first hand.  There is a lot I would adjust, not necessarily change.  Too bad no one is “asking” me.

 

-Joel Hodge

Brainwash, February 2007

The High Fidels, well you guys looked like you were having a good time, at least a good time amongst yourselves.  We in the audience couldn’t tell what the fuck was going on.  Musically it was nice to hear some Frank songs with a bigger band backing, but I thought that the drummers interpretation of my stuff sucked (hey, what else am I supposed to say?!?).  Jeb was spot on, you were paying attention, the drummer – limited to his rock style and needed some more depth… but whatever, bass player was just there playing bass, the other guitar guy was fun to watch, but his playing was labored.  I think he’s used to playing in a studio, but seemed to have some issues with the pace running him over on some of the tunes.  I liked Jeb’s solos and fills better than the other dudes (MPO).  The keyboards were in the slot and from where I was sitting the sound was tolerable.  However, when I moved over to the side, stage left, I could see that none of you could hear shit.  You really could have used a monitor.  Honestly, I’ve heard you sing better, but I think it was mostly because you couldn’t hear yourself, or you were all fucked up on v’s or e or beer or whatever (just kidding about the drugs, kinda).  I liked “Maggie’s Farm” and I dug Jeb’s “Gary – Hit by a Truck” tune.  Very pop and certainly sellable as a single.  “Psycho Killer” was kinda lame, I don’t know if your drummer has ever listened to the live version from “Stop Making Sense” but there is a little more dynamic to it than he portrayed.  I liked the Chitty-Chitty-Bang-Bang/Bed Knobs and Broomsticks mash up at the end and it worked well for me.  Fashion-wise I’d give the drummer and bass player each a three.  The rhythm guitar/singer gets a solid four for his late ‘90’s throw back “t-shirt with a flannel” works with everything “doesn’t it honey” married guy get up.  Jeb I have to knock a little because he tried at the ‘80’s prep-post Flock of Seagulls/early ‘90’s “MTV’s not cool, but I want to be on it” thing he had going on.  If he’d committed, it would have worked.  He needed to pop the collar, exchange the Old Navy cargo pants for some parachute Sergios, and a little eye liner would have set it off.  As it was, I have to give him a six point five.  You were the most Castro looking of the group, and I can imagine rolling up on a Cuban dressed like you in Havana or Miami, so I give you a nine.  I thought the crowd’s reaction was underwhelming and I attribute most of that to the whole “I’m in a coffee shop/laundry mat and I’m not supposed to clap at people playing music” stigma bullshit college-college-college crap.  Whatever, and “fuck ‘em” (Sara, Jeb’s weird girlfriend (who I love), and your friends excluded, of course…).  Brainwash, eh…  As a venue it’s a better space to shoot a video than to feature.  The wait staff, although helpful, was somewhat put-offish. The PBR was only beer and the tap was too common, I could have had that beer anywhere.  My cup was soon warm and I would have appreciated a nitrogen charged brew rather than the Tide tinged swill I was subjected to.  The atmosphere was sterile-industrial, and I had to constantly remind myself that I wasn’t waiting for my burrito order at Chipotle.  And the code to the shitter is “6000!”  You hear that everybody?!?  There was lint everywhere and not a single toilet paper roll and Bounce dryer sheet to blow my pot smoke through.  What the fuck was that about?  Could I recommend it to a friend?  Only reluctantly.

-J